The Throwaway Children (32 page)

‘D’you know why the visitors are coming?’ Rita asked Audrey as she put on her socks and sandals.

Audrey, whose feet were bare, and more than a little grubby, shrugged. ‘’Spect it’s for parade.’

‘Parade!’ echoed Rita. ‘What’s parade?’

‘You stand on parade and people come and look at you,’ said Audrey.

‘But what for?’

‘To see if they want to take you,’ chipped in Carol.

‘Take you? Take you where?’ Rita still didn’t understand.

‘Take you with them.’ Audrey spoke as if explaining to an idiot. ‘To live with them. ’Doption, it’s called.’

‘And they just take you away?’ Rita shivered, a sudden chill running through her.

‘Yeah, well, they come and look from time to time,’ Audrey told her, ‘but nobody never gets took. Don’t know why they bother, d’you, Carol?’

‘I never knew anyone to get took,’ agreed Carol, ‘and I’ve been here forever.’

Rita’s mind was racing. Could these people who were coming today, could they simply carry one of them off to live somewhere else? Why was it only her and the three little girls who were to be ‘on parade’, as Audrey had called it? Did it mean what she’d been dreading, that she might be separated from Rosie? She closed her eyes, fighting against the waves of panic welling up inside her.

‘Reet?’ Daisy had been listening to the exchange with interest, ‘Reet? You all right?’ She edged towards the door. ‘Come on, Reet, we got to go.’

‘S’posing they take Rosie,’ Rita whispered.

‘They won’t,’ Daisy assured her. ‘You heard what Carol said. No one ever gets took.’ She reached out and pulled at her friend’s arm. ‘Come on, Reet, we’ll be late.’

At breakfast Rita was the only girl in Oak who was not dressed in her weekend overalls. Wearing her bright tartan pinafore, she stood out like a parrot among a flock of pigeons. Mrs Garfield, standing at the head of the table, sniffed when she saw her come in, but otherwise ignored her. The other girls cast sideways glances in her direction as she struggled to swallow that morning’s helping of glutinous porridge. The silence, broken only by the scraping of spoon on bowl, was oppressive, and Rita couldn’t wait for the meal to end.

When at last the tin plates had been cleared away, and Mrs Garfield had disappeared to her own quarters to eat bacon and eggs, Irene, from Ash, appeared and said, ‘Message from Mrs Manton, Rita. You’re to go straight over to central and to wait in the meeting hall, all right?’

Rita gulped and nodded. Irene gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘You’ll be all right. Never know, you might get lucky and get out of this place.’ She gave Rita a little push. ‘Go on now, don’t be late or you really will be in for it… and don’t forget to brush your hair!’

Rita went back to the dorm. She brushed her hair as instructed, slipping on the hair band Miss Ellen had made from some tartan ribbon. Just before she left the room, she rescued the photo of Daddy from under the mattress and tucked it inside her blouse, so that she could feel the stiff paper against her skin and know that he was safe.

When she reached the meeting room, she found Rosie already waiting there. Rosie leaped to her feet and with a cry of ‘Reet!’ ran to hug her sister. Rita returned the hug and said, ‘You all right, Rosie?’ She looked at her little sister, and the sight of her twisted Rita’s heart. It was clear someone who knew she was ‘on parade’ had taken great care with the little girl’s appearance. Rosie was dressed in her rose-patterned dress, which, though a little on the short side, still fitted her. Her fair, curly hair was brushed, parted down the middle and tied with a pink ribbon on either side. She wore clean white socks and her sandals had been polished. She looked bright and clean and… lovable, and Rita felt a sudden burst of affection for her.

‘Who did your hair, Rosie?’ she asked, gruffly.

‘Mrs Watson,’ replied Rosie, making a face. ‘She pulled.’

‘S’pect it was tangly,’ said Rita, ‘but it looks nice now.’ So different from her own hair, dark and straight, held clear of her face by the tartan snood.

The door opened and Susan and Sylvia came in, brought over by one of the older girls from Pine. They, too, had had their hair brushed, both now wearing neat plaits. They came in nervously, holding hands, and even when they sat down on the floor beside the other two, they kept a tight grip on each other.

‘What we got to do, Rita?’ asked Susan nervously.

‘Don’t know. We’ll get told.’

‘Who’s coming to see us?’ asked Rosie.

‘I don’t know, do I?’ Rita snapped, her own nerves jangling. ‘Just some people.’ How she wished this ‘parade’ was over and they could all go back to their cottages and get on with things.

At that moment the door opened and Mrs Manton came in. ‘Stand!’

They stood, a forlorn group of four children, looking anxiously at the superintendent’s grim face. Rita and Rosie close together, hands clasped; Sylvia and Susan, each holding tight to the other.

‘Stand up straight!’ ordered Mrs Manton. ‘And for goodness sake, stop holding hands like babies!’ She looked them over and seeming satisfied with what she saw, said, ‘I’ll be bringing our visitors in shortly, so remember what I said: stand still and straight, be quiet, and answer properly if anyone asks you a question. Understand?’ When no one replied, she said again, ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Mrs Manton,’ muttered Rita, and the three little girls murmured, ‘Yes, miss,’ in a whispered chorus.

Mrs Manton gave a brisk nod and left the room. The four children stood as she’d left them, not daring to move. Moments later the door opened again and Mrs Manton brought in a man and a woman.

Rita, her head held high, standing straight as she’d been told, looked at them. They looked quite ordinary, she thought. The lady wore red lipstick and had permed hair; the man had a red face, wore a blue suit and brown shoes, and his smoothed hair was shiny with oil. Just ordinary grown-ups, really, Rita thought.

The couple paused inside the doorway, their eyes resting on the little group of waiting girls. Nobody said anything. No introductions were made. Mrs Manton stood, a silent presence behind them, as they studied the ‘parade’. Then the man came forward, and walked up to Rosie.

‘Hallo, little girl,’ he said. ‘And what’s your name?’

Rosie edged behind Rita, peering round nervously at this stranger who towered over her, a bear of a man with a red face and wide bristling moustache.

‘Tell Mr Waters your name, child,’ ordered Mrs Manton.

‘Rosie,’ she whispered.

The man bent down, thrusting his big face close to hers.

‘And how old are you, Rosie?’

Again Rosie hesitated and Mrs Manton prompted her with a brisk, ‘Speak up, Rosie!’

‘Five.’ Rosie had taken hold of Rita’s hand again, and Rita gave her a comforting squeeze. She glowered at the man whose face was just inches away from Rosie’s. Can’t you see she’s frightened? she wanted to say. She’s only five.

The man glanced up at Rita and asked, ‘And is this your friend, Rosie? What’s her name?’

Rosie didn’t answer, and so Rita said, ‘My name’s Rita, and I’m Rosie’s sister.’

‘Your sister, eh?’ The man nodded, and stepped back towards the woman who was still standing at the door. He had hardly glanced at the two other little girls, standing stiff and frightened. They didn’t have the blonde curls, they didn’t have the blue eyes, which was what Gerald Waters liked in little girls, and Rosie, in her rose-patterned dress, was an exotic butterfly beside two moths.

The woman now walked across to the little group of children. She asked each of them her name, and how old she was. Each replied, monosyllabic, always with an anxious eye on the superintendent who hovered, a black crow, in the background.

When she reached Rosie she smiled and said, ‘What a pretty dress.’

‘My gran made it,’ Rosie told her.

‘Your gran?’ The woman sounded surprised. She’d assumed that these children here had no family.

‘She made it from her curtains,’ Rosie told her.

‘Did she now? From her curtains! How clever!’

Rosie smiled at her, but Rita, listening, didn’t think the woman really thought it was clever at all. She said the words, but Rita could tell she didn’t mean them.

‘Well, Rosie,’ smiled the woman, ‘you look very pretty in it.’ Rosie beamed at her. She loved being told how pretty she looked.

Having finished her inspection, the woman rejoined her husband by the door. They spoke together in hushed tones for a moment and then Mr Waters turned to Mrs Manton.

‘We’ll take that one,’ he said, and pointed to Rosie.

Mrs Manton treated the couple to her best smile and said, ‘The perfect choice, I’d say.’ She turned to the waiting children and said, ‘Rosie, come over here. The rest of you can go back to your cottages and get changed.’

Susan and Sylvia hesitated for a moment and then scurried out of the room. Rosie came forward as asked, but Rita stood her ground.

‘Off you go, Rita,’ snapped Mrs Manton. ‘We don’t need you any more.’

‘But what about Rosie?’ asked Rita.

‘What about Rosie?’ Mrs Manton’s tone was cold.

‘Rosie’s coming to live with us,’ Mrs Waters broke in. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Rosie? To come and live at our house?’

‘Can Reet come too?’ asked Rosie.

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ replied Mrs Waters. ‘We haven’t room for both of you. But you can come… I’m going to be your new mother.’

Rosie’s sunny smile faded. ‘I got a mother,’ Rosie told her. ‘She’s called Mummy.’ Then her lip began to tremble. ‘But I don’t know where she is now.’ She looked across at her sister and said, ‘Where’s Mummy, Reet? I want Mummy.’

It was so long since Rosie had mentioned their mother that Rita didn’t know what to say. She wanted Mum, too, but she’d already realized that they were never going to see her again. She stepped forward and put her arms round her sister, holding her close.

‘Mummy’s not here now, Rosie,’ she whispered, ‘but I’ll look after you.’

‘Off you go now, Rita,’ snapped Mrs Manton. ‘You can say goodbye to Rose before she leaves.’

‘But—’ began Rita, but the superintendent interrupted before she could protest further.

‘Leave the room immediately, Rita. I’ll deal with you later. Rose, you’ll come with us.’ She took hold of Rosie’s hand and jerked her away from Rita, saying to the couple as she did so, ‘Perhaps you’d like to come through to my sitting room where we can deal with the formalities.’

They left the room, Rosie beginning to wail as she realized Rita wasn’t coming with them, wails that were abruptly cut off by the closing of the door.

Rita was left standing alone, icy despair flooding through her as she knew that her worst fear had come true. She was going to lose Rosie. Just like that. Rosie was going to be taken away, to live with people she didn’t know. She, Rita, was going to be left here at Laurel Farm, and each of them would lose the last link with Mum and Gran and Ship Street. She was going to lose Rosie and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do about it. She gazed round the empty room in anguish. She didn’t even believe Mrs Manton when she said that she’d be able to say goodbye to Rosie before she left.

Rosie’ll have to get her things, thought Rita. And Knitty, she’ll want Knitty!

Rita ran across the dusty grass to Larch Cottage. When she got there, she banged on the front door. It was opened by a girl Rita didn’t know, but she pushed past her and ran along the passage to Rosie’s dorm. There, hidden under the blanket, she found Knitty. He was looking the worse for wear after his travels, but she gathered him up, hugging his familiar striped body to her before tucking him under her arm.

‘You’ll go with her, Knitty,’ she said. ‘At least she’ll have you.’

‘And what is going on here?’ demanded a voice and Rita spun round to find herself confronted by Mrs Watson, standing in the doorway.

‘Oh, it’s you again,’ sighed Mrs Watson, when she recognized Rita. ‘I told you yesterday about visiting cottages uninvited.’

‘They’re taking my sister away,’ cried Rita, her voice breaking with misery. ‘They’re taking Rosie away and I can’t stop them.’

‘No, you can’t,’ agreed Mrs Watson. ‘And you shouldn’t want to! She’s going to a family where she’ll be looked after and loved. You should be happy for her, or are you too selfish?’ She arched her eyebrows and looked expectantly at Rita. When Rita didn’t reply she went on, ‘Come along, Rita, let’s go to my room and talk about this, shall we?’

Rita paused uncertainly. Suppose Rosie came back to her dorm and Rita wasn’t there? Mrs Manton had promised they’d be allowed to say goodbye properly, but suppose she didn’t keep that promise? Supposing they just sneaked Rosie away and Rita never saw her again? The thought made her clutch Knitty to her more tightly.

Mrs Watson held out her hand. ‘Come along, Rita, you can’t stay here, you know.’

‘Mrs Manton said I could say goodbye.’

‘And so you shall. Now come along, there’s a good girl.’ Mrs Watson didn’t sound angry, just tired. Still holding tight to Knitty, Rita reluctantly followed her out of the dorm through the living room, and into Mrs Watson’s domain beyond.

Though sparsely furnished, an attempt had been made to turn the two small rooms into a home. There were some books on a shelf, and a photo of a smiling baby in a frame on the mantelpiece. An easy chair stood beside the empty fireplace and there was a table covered with a red cloth in the window with a chair on either side.

Mrs Watson waved at one of these. ‘Sit down, Rita.’

Rita did as she was told, and Mrs Watson took her place on the chair opposite. She rested her hands on the table and looked across at Rita.

‘Now then, Rita,’ she said, ‘I know you’re upset that Rosie’s been chosen to be adopted and not you—’

‘It ain’t that, miss,’ interrupted Rita, ‘it ain’t that I’m left behind, it’s ’cos she’s going. She’s being took away and I don’t know where. She’s all I got left now. Our dad’s dead, miss. Our mum don’t want us. Our gran’s in the hospital. Don’t know if she’ll get better. Rosie and me got each other and that’s all, see. If I lose her and she loses me, well, we ain’t got no one else, have we?’

‘No, not just now. But if Rosie’s adopted, she’ll have a much better life than if she stayed here.’